Aeturnum
by Th3Gh0stWr1ter
Summary: Four factions. A war for supremacy in Mossflower. One mouse's story.
1. Prologue

**This is a fresh idea…something different…something darker…something new.**

**RIP Brian Jacques (1939-2011).**

**Enjoy.**

**~The Ghost Writer**

* * *

They came in droves. At first, it was like the few snowflakes that heralded a blizzard. Very soon after, everything turned to madness. It was as if the very gates of Hell had been broken wide open and all of its eternal denizens released upon us. Everything was over before we knew it. We retreated into the night, not knowing where we would be come dawn, and some of us regrouped in a clearing, where we lined up single file as we did during drill. The march back to camp was silent. That we were cheated of an easy victory didn't affect us in the slightest. We were dazed, shocked, numbed. Many of us couldn't even tell our right from our left. All I can remember are blazing fires and deafening thunder. The screams in the night will haunt my memories for as long as I live. So let me die. They came in droves.

_-Journal of an unknown Mossflowerian soldier_

* * *

_**Aeturnum**_

**Book 1 – New Arrivals**

**Book 2 – "We're Not the Same"**

**Book 3 – Daylight**


	2. Chapter 1

**BOOK 1: New Arrivals**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Clouds obscured the dark sky, gathering in mysterious wisps above the forests of Mossflower country. All through the land, lightning flashed and thunder pounded freely and irregularly, in contrast to the strict time set by war drums which the inhabitants of Mossflower were by now so accustomed to. Large patches of the woodlands had been burned down during the course of seasons of fighting, but the forest surrounding Redwall Abbey was still standing, isolating the ancient edifice from the world around it.

The Abbey, built countless seasons ago from red sandstone, stood like a monolith in the vast sea of green. It stood against the test of time, weather, and battle, establishing itself as a haven for anybeast with good in their heart. Over the seasons the Abbey also expanded to serve as a home for the wounded, the sick, and generally creatures with no place to go. Food was always abundant. The inhabitants grew up in peace, within the four walls of Redwall Abbey.

Wind howled and rain poured down from the heavens in slanted columns, pounding against the Abbey walls. Not a creature was outside in this sort of weather, save three brave souls in the patch of woodland just outside Redwall.

Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum were playing war again. Dressed in straw raincoats and armed with a stick and a lantern apiece, the trio hid behind a cluster of rocks.

"Captain Gabriel, reporting for duty."

"Lieutenant Ashlin, reporting for duty."

"Burr, Proivate Burrum, reportin' furr duty."

"Alright, troops," said "Captain" Gabriel. "The enemy is just beyond that ridge, holding the hill. If we charge their positions we may be able to dislodge them. Prepare the assault."

"I'm with you, sir," Ashlin said. "'Tis a nice day to die."

"Hurr hurr, 'um Koiberrum varmints woan't know wot hit 'em," Burrum chuckled in his baritone molespeech.

"Stay down, squirrel!" Gabriel hissed to Ashlin. "Can't you see they're still raining arrows on us?"

"My lantern just went out," Ashlin groused.

"Never mind. We'll do with just two," Gabriel replied. He drew a shiny knife which he had stolen from the Kitchens. "Ready to be heroes, mates?"

"Aye," Ashlin answered, bundling up in his raincoat.

"CH – "

Before Gabriel could initiate the "attack", he was hauled upright by the ear.

"Owowow! Leggo! Stoppit!"

"Aren't you three a little old to be playin' soldier?" Den asked sarcastically as Gabriel struggled in his grasp. Den was a mouse, just like Gabriel, but two seasons older.

"You're the one to talk, lunkhead," retorted Gabriel indignantly. Den was constantly talking about joining the Mossflower Militia to fight in the war.

"Oho, lunkhead, is it?" the older mouse challenged, raising a glowing lantern up to Gabriel's face. The younger mouse squinted at the intrusive light. "And wot are you doin' with this knife? Give it t' me! The cook 'as been searchin' for it all day an' he promises t' skin the thief alive once 'e's found 'im. C'mon, let's go, all three of ye. We'll see wot the Abbot has t' say about this."

"D-do you think you could let us off easy this time, Den?" Ashlin ventured. "It's late and the Abbot is probably asleep."

Den's tough, muscular features betrayed nothing as he laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, don't worry. 'E's wide awake an' waitin' for you three. Now shut up an' let's go inside. I'm gettin' rained on."

The three friends looked at each other apologetically, and followed Den inside.

* * *

Once the quartet had entered through the Main Gate and crossed the Abbey Lawns through pouring rain and splashing mud, they entered the dimly-lit Great Hall. Den tossed each friend two clean towels. "Stand there an' dry yoreselves with one towel," he ordered gruffly. "Then wipe yore footpaws with the other."

After the three scrawny youths had sufficiently dried themselves off, Den motioned for them to follow him. "C'mon, into the Abbot's study ye go," he ordered, motioning toward the exit with a turn of his head.

Wordlessly, Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum allowed themselves to be led out of the Great Hall. As they left, Gabriel turned to look at the ancient tapestry which ran along one of the walls. It was, of course, the tapestry which depicted Redwall's founder, Martin the Warrior. Gabriel had spent hours at a time studying the tapestry and Martin the Warrior. The mouse depicted on the cloth stood fearlessly in the center, as vermin fled from him in all directions. He looked so brave and valiant that Gabriel couldn't help but admire the tapestry everytime he walked by it.

"That's what I want to be. _That._" Gabriel blurted out. Everybeast looked at him, and the young mouse realized that he had just spoken his thoughts out loud. Slightly embarrassed, he cast his eyes to the floor as the four walked out of the Great Hall and through the ancient corridors of the Abbey, abandoned now that most creatures had turned in for the night. Gabriel's pawsteps echoed throughout the halls. Everything seemed too quiet.

Finally, the group reached a small door. Den knocked and was greeted by a firm voice. "Come in!" Den turned the knob and pushed the door open. "In you go," he ordered. Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum shuffled inside.

* * *

Abbot Meros was not a typical Abbot. Several seasons ago he had ascended to the position of Abbot twelve seasons ago, following the death of Abbess Lysantha. Meros had fought in the war, rising the rank of General. He was chosen to lead Redwall simply because he was the ablest leader during times of conflict. Even though he was long retired from military service, his abilities – as well as his imposing presence – had not diminished. It was said he could even smell the fear of other creatures. Behind him stood Ashlin and Burrum's parents. The trio stood close to one another, bracing themselves for a thorough chastising from the aging mouse.

Slowly, the Abbot stood up. Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum knew too well that when Abbot Meros stood up, he meant business. The trio gulped. Gabriel's throat felt dry.

"Well then, you three, what do you have to say for yourselves?"

The trio murmured something and stared at their footpaws, shuffling around nervously.

_"Stand to attention when I'm talking to you!"_ the Abbot commanded. The three obeyed instantly.

"That's better," the Abbot nodded. "Now, this is the fourth time the three of you have been caught outside after hours."

"Aye," Ashlin's mother butted in. "Don't you youngsters know that there're vermin raiders and Kiberians out there?"

"It's not so much the vermin we're worried about; it's th' Kiberians," Ashlin's father added. "They're deadly killers! Barbarians! Ye never know when or where they'll strike next! You three, carryin' lanterns out there in the middle of the night – wot were ye thinking? You could've been kidnapped or worse!"

"'M sorry," Ashlin mumbled. "I guess we just like playing war."

Abbot Meros' eyes narrowed. "You three need to grow up. You're all seventeen seasons old already and you're still playing war. Everybeast at Redwall is tired of your antics."

_You need to grow up._ Gabriel scowled. He hated that phrase. Why should anybeast criticize him for his passion? Ever since he was young, he had admired the Mossflower Militia. A regiment had once held a demonstration in Redwall Abbey with the Abbot's permission. Ever since he was very young, Gabriel had been fascinated with the crisp green uniforms and shining pikes that they carried. Moreover, he was enthralled with the Militia's drill routines that they had demonstrated that day and the songs they sang about crushing the vermin and the fabled Kiberians. After the show, Gabriel met with a young squirrel named Ashlin and a young mole named Burrum, and the three of them watched a long line of Redwallers signing up at the recruiting table. The three of them had promised that one day, they would be in the Mossflower Militia, wearing bright green uniforms, wielding swords and pikes, and driving Mossflower's sworn enemies out of the country and into the sea…

"Are you listening, Gabriel?" the Abbot snapped his fingers in front of Gabriel's face. The mouse came to. "Yes, Father Abbot," he mumbled, not daring to look the Abbot in the eye."

"Good," Meros replied. "The three of you are to clean the entire Kitchens and Great Hall tomorrow straight after breakfast. I want the windows wiped, floors scrubbed, and walls dusted. Maybe that'll teach you some discipline. You are not to rest or to sleep until you are finished. Understood?"

"Yes, Father Abbot," the trio answered in unison.

Abbot Meros nodded, satisfied, as he turned to the parents of Ashlin and Burrum. "Anything you want to add?"

The parents shook their heads, casting their eyes to the ground. Gabriel got the feeling that they were as frightened by Meros as he was. He hated the Abbot.

Then, the unexplainable happened. Whether it was out of frustration or fear, Gabriel blurted out: "I want to enlist."

The Abbot turned. "What?"

"Uhh, Gabriel," Ashlin hissed. "Not a good idea."

"You heard me," Gabriel repeated, his voice rising. "I want to enlist in the Mossflower Militia, and so do Ashlin and Burrum."

Ashlin kept quiet, but Burrum backed up his friend. "Oi want t' go with Garbr'el. We'm be old enuff, burr aye!"

Ashlin's mother immediately swept her son up in her shawl. "Shame on you, Gabriel, putting ideas into my Ashlin's head like that! You're lucky you're an orphan. If I were your mother, huh, I'd knock some sense into you!"

"You'm bain't be old enuff, zurr Garb," Burrum's mother growled warningly.

"Right," the Abbot stated matter-of-factly. "The three of you are too young. Besides, Ashlin and Burrum's parents would never let their only sons go off to war."

"Well, what about Den?" Gabriel asked. He was nearly shouting now. "How come he gets all the chances and not us?" Den was close friends with the Abbot.

"Den is nineteen seasons old, going on twenty," the Abbot replied, trying to keep an even tone. "The minimum enlistment age of the Mossflower Militia is twenty seasons. Den will enlist when the time comes, I'm sure of it. His parents have consented. Now, I'm warning you: keep an even tone with your elders and betters, Gabriel. Maybe you can enlist after three seasons, assuming you still haven't grown up yet."

Gabriel's face darkened and for a moment it looked as though he and Meros were going to come to blows. At that moment, Ashlin's father stepped in.

"Enough, Gabriel. We've heard enough of yore excuses. Yore a bad influence on Ashlin."

"An' on Burrum," Burrum's father added.

"Therefore, after tomorrow, the three of you are not to talk to each other or be together. Besides, our son is very busy, and I'm sure Burrum is too. Ashlin, after you clean up the Abbey tomorrow, you must help your mother and I harvest wheat. It's autumn, you know."

"Yes, father," Ashlin mumbled, not looking at Gabriel.

"An' you, ye young scullywag," Burrum's mother said angrily, "you'm go 'elp yore farther an' Foremole fix th' roof."

Burrum nodded quietly.

"Well, that settles that," the Abbot said. "Ashlin and Burrum, go to sleep. _No talking this time._Gabriel, you stay here for a minute."

Gabriel said nothing. He just stared at the Abbot, hatred in his eyes.

* * *

That night, Gabriel crept into his room, careful not to wake his entire Dormitory wing. Exhausted, he flopped down on his bed. The bed felt hard. The room felt cold. He felt angry.

"May I remind you that Redwall is just here to aid the wounded. We side with nobeast. This war is not ours," the Abbot had said.

Gabriel didn't believe a word of that. He could not believe that an Abbot who had once commanded Mossflowerian forces on the battlefield could so easily proclaim neutrality.

Tossing and turning, he finally got comfortable and closed his eyes, a plan forming in his head. Abbot Meros could yell and scream all he wanted, but Gabriel was getting his way eventually. This he swore to himself.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

The sun was beginning its ascent into the cloudless autumn sky, and the scent of wet earth following a storm wafted throughout Redwall Abbey. After breakfast, everybeast ran outside – some to play, others to work. It was harvest season, and the crops had been plentiful. Nobeast ever went hungry within these walls, no matter what was going on in the outside world.

Of course, Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum were not allowed to savor the smell of fresh grain being threshed, or hear the sound of bluebirds trilling. They had to stay inside, as per Abbot Meros' orders, and clean the entire Great Hall and Kitchens. The sheer combined size of the two areas meant that the task would probably take a whole day.

Armed with a bucket of water, a mop, and a brush apiece, the trio got to work, but, as good friends are apt to do, they soon struck up conversation.

"So, everybeast sleep well last night?" Gabriel piped up.

"Aye," Burrum replied. "Snoared louder n' ee thunderstoarm, hurr hurr."

"What about you, Ashlin?"

"Not bad, not bad."

"Well," Gabriel grunted, taking his heavy mop out of his water bucket and squelching it down on the stone floor, "This is probably the last time we'll be together for a little while, mates, so enjoy it."

Ashlin shrugged. "We'll find time to meet."

"Roight," added Burrum, as he lowered his voice. "An' doan't ee ferget et, we'm be's enlisting soon enuff!"

"And we'll be out of here! Finally! I can't stand Abbot Meros!" Gabriel exclaimed. "They should've never let a former General become Abbot! He's so full of lies! Did you two hear him this morning when he was making announcements?"

"What about it?" inquired Ashlin.

"Didn't you hear? He said that Redwall will be ready at all times to assist the wounded and the sick. Then he assigned a couple mice on mandatory sentry duty to watch out for Kiberians. Whatever happened to 'Redwall will remain neutral'?"

"Why's that such a big deal?" Ashlin asked, dragging his mop across the floor.

"You don't get it, do you? The Abbot clearly sides with the woodlanders. He _wants_ to be involved in this war. And yet he won't let me enlist," Gabriel fumed. "What's stoppin' him from making a commitment to arms?"

"Yurr, you'm be's a-makin' a gurt big deal over ee small trifle," Burrum replied sagely.

"Right," Ashlin said, backing up his mole friend. "You're not old enough to enlist, Gabe. None of us are."

"Ahh, whose side are you on anyway?" Gabriel grumbled, scrubbing hard at a little speck of dirt that refused to come off the floor. It was a nice day, and all the doors were left open so that light and fresh air could enter. "Listen, can you hear the Dibbuns playing war outside? Funny how nobeast cares when they play war and we get busted when we do."

Ashlin and Burrum looked at each other, mutually deciding in silence that it was best not to point out technicalities.

Gabriel listened to the sounds of Dibbuns giggling outside.

"Right! So me n' Tibble will be's Mossflow'r warriors, an' yew tew kin be Kiberians!"

"Aww, we're allus th' Kiberians! Can we switch? I don' wanna play as a Kiberian. They're evil, evil vermin!"

"If'n you don' wan' play, then don't! So there!"

"Waaah! I'm telling momma!..."

Ashlin, too, had been listening to the little ones playing. "Has anybeast actually _encountered_ a vermin raider or a Kiberian up close?"

"Hurr, they'm all be scumbag varmints," Burrum growled. "Evil critters, villyuns, they be."

"Well, once we've enlisted we'll know. Right, lads?" Gabriel asked, dipping his mop into the bucket of water once again.

Further conversation was cut short as the trio was greeted by Clemence the hogwife.

"Good morning, marm," Gabriel waved, to be polite.

The elderly hogwife peered over her tiny glasses and walked towards them. "Oh, why, good morning t' you three as well! What're ye three fine gentlebeasts doing inside on a wonderful day like this?"

Gabriel looked at his friends. "The Abbot," they replied in unison.

Clemence chuckled. "Got in trouble again? Well, I better leave you three to yore chores. Don't want to get the Abbot angry. You know what 'e's like." She proceeded to walk toward the doors.

"Wait, Missus Clemence," Gabriel called, getting her attention. "Do you know anything about the war in Mossflower?"

Clemence adjusted the strings on her apron as her expression darkened. "All I know is that we're fightin' some really stubborn enemies. They just won't quit!"

"Loike th' vurmints?" Burrum piped up.

"Vermin are pure evil, young 'un," Clemence replied with a scowl. "They raid our coasts and terrorize the good-hearted folk livin' there. Fortunately they 'aven't moved inland. But they've caused a lot of damage over there. I should know: my dear husband was an innocent fisherbeast an' one day 'e went fishin' even though I warned him there were vermin lurking about. 'E never came back."

"I'm so, so sorry," Gabriel apologized. "…What about the Kiberians?"

"I've never seen 'em, and thank th' seasons I 'aven't," Clemence replied. "Nothin' but trouble, they are. Ever since they came t' our beloved Mossflower twenty seasons ago, they've been nothin' but misery, with their diseases an' their strange customs an' such…" in disgust, the hogwife spat a yellow stream of saliva onto the floor near where Burrum was cleaning, forcing the young mole to come over and mop it up.

Gabriel leaned forward, enthralled. "Tell me more, please, Missus Clemence."

"They're dangerous – worser 'n anythin' ye could dream up in yore wildest nightmares, young 'un. 'Tis general fact – ask any good, honest beast an' they'll all say the same thing. Kiberians – they go about with this evil glint in their eyes. They steal food that those poor, honest woodlanders work so hard to grow, making the young 'uns starve. They pillage and murder, an' they ambush an' rob travelers! The very nerve of those...those…_animals_! Tell me: how'd _you_ feel if'n somebeast just moved in an' decided to do all these horrible things t' ye? Those filthy, good-for-nothing barbarians!" The hogwife paused and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry ye youngsters 'ave t' see an old cynic like me ventin' like that, but I'm tellin' ye: be careful of 'em. There's no tellin' what they'd do t' somebeast like you…at least that's what I heard."

Gabriel nodded, feeling very excited. Joining the war to fight to wipe evil out in Mossflower would be very glorious.

"Anyway, I need t' go an' warm up the old limbs," Clemence said. "Winter's comin', ye know. It's bad for the joints. Oh, an' – " she turned and wagged a finger at the trio; " – Don't you three get any ideas about enlistin' early. I don't want t' be responsible for fillin' up yore young heads with ideas." With that, the elderly hogwife turned and went outside.

After she had gone, the three friends looked at each other, smirked, and went back to mopping up the floors. They had a lot of work to finish.

* * *

It was about late afternoon when there was a cry outside to open the gates. The imposing front gates of Redwall Abbey swung open, and in hurried a long line of woodland refugees and wounded troops, escorted by the uniform-clad soldiers of the Mossflower Militia.

Abbot Meros was quick to act. "Get the wounded to the Infirmary at once! See to it that the refugees get food, water, and medical attention if need be! Step to it, everybeast!"

Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum had cleaned the Kitchens and were wiping down the stained-glass windows when they heard the hustle and bustle outside.

"Do you hear that?" Ashlin asked, his ears perking up. "Could be another bunch of refugees."

Gabriel paused, the rag dropping from his paw. "Wait…d'you know what that means for us?"

"No…" Ashlin and Burrum replied together.

"Don't you get it?" Gabriel asked, his voice shrill with excitement, "Refugees mean there are soldiers here to escort them…an' that means we can ask for information on where to enlist!"

"That's genius!" Ashlin laughed aloud.

Burrum tossed down his rag. "Oi'm with ye, mate!"

"Alright," Gabriel nodded. "But we have to keep quiet. We're not done cleaning this place up and the Abbot'll throw a fit if he sees us. Come on, this way."

With that, the trio ran for the doors.

* * *

"Abbot Meros, 'tis a pleasure t'see you again."

The Abbot saluted, instead of performing the traditional bow. "The pleasure is all mine, Lieutenant Rask. Tell me: what have your troops brought to my doorstep?"

The green-clad mouse with an eyepatch over one eye, known as Rask, gestured towards the pitiful group of woodlanders – male and female, young and old – "Got about fifty woodlanders displaced, plus sixteen wounded in action," he shrugged. "The Kiberians 'ave breached our defenses at the South Stream. They've killed most of our officers and they've overrun our food stores. We had no choice but t' retreat as fast as we could."

"What about the woodlanders?" Abbot Meros inquired.

"The ones you see here are the ones that made it out, Father Abbot," replied Lieutenant Rask grimly. "The rest…I'm not sure."

"Mmm," the Abbot nodded calmly. "The line isn't holding up very well, is it?"

Lieutenant Rask sighed. "Father Abbot, you chose t' retire at a bad time, if ye don't mind me sayin'. If our sources are correct, th' Kiberians not only've grown in number, but they've become much more organized now. They 'ave a council of war an' it seems to us that their weapons and leadership have vastly improved. We could really use some of your leadership right now, sir. I'm not here for recruitment today, but if you could show me a few beasts wanting t' join up then I'd be much obliged…_General_ Meros."

"Please," the Abbot replied modestly, chuckling. "I'm just a humble Father Abbot. As for potential recruits, I know a few off the top of my head, but the problem is they're all a bit young…"

"Understood, Father Abbot," Rask nodded. "I'll come back in a season or two, when they meet th' minimum age requirements."

Meanwhile, Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum were peeking out to the Lawns from inside the Great Hall.

"Wonderful," Ashlin muttered. "How're we going t' get out there without Meros seeing us?"

At that moment, Gabriel noticed the wounded being put on stretchers and hauled toward the Great Hall. "He won't have to."

Ashlin turned. "What?"

"The Infirmary! Come on!"

* * *

"Burrum."

"Yurr, that's me."

"Did you drink from your canteen at all today?"

"Nay, zurr. Oi carn go furr days without…"

_Swipe!..._"Thanks, Burrum."

"Wot was that f – "

"You'll see," Gabriel replied as they were greeted by Sister Snow at the Infirmary doors.

"I'm sorry, you three," Sister Snow said matter-of-factly, "but there are to be no visitors today. We're too busy taking care of the wounded soldiers."

"I understand, Sister," Gabriel replied calmly, holding up Burrum's canteen. "But the Abbot sent us here to deliver water to the soldiers."

The kind but firm Infirmary Keeper eyed the three suspiciously. "He sent all _three_ of you? Gabriel, if there's something you're hiding from me…"

"Oh, no," Gabriel said quickly. "Ashlin and Burrum are just tagging along."

"Well, alright. You can enter, Gabriel, but your friends must wait outside."

"Thank you, Sister," Gabriel smiled. He shot a quick look at his friends and they exchanged quick smiles before the young mouse pushed the door open and went inside.

The strong scent of herbs assailed Gabriel's nostrils as he entered the Infirmary. The room was packed with medical staff and wounded soldiers alike. Gabriel was a little nervous. He had never actually seen soldiers being treated for their wounds before, and the fact that some were screaming in pain was not helping matters at all.

Looking to his left, Gabriel spotted an otter lying unattended on a cot, staring at the ceiling. Making sure nobeast was eyeing him suspiciously, Gabriel approached the wounded soldier. "Good afternoon, sir. I hope you weren't wounded? I have some water with me if you want any."

The otter lifted his head slightly. "Thanks, mate. I could use some water – I've been out in th' sun all day. There's a nurse gettin' a cast for my broken ankle. I shattered it during the retreat."

Gabriel uncapped Burrum's canteen and held the opening over the soldier's mouth, giving him water. "Did the Kiberians do this to you?"

"Aye."

"I've always wanted to go to war," Gabriel chuckled. "Always wanted t' carry a Kiberian's head home on a pike. Everybeast would think I'm a hero, then."

"Mmm," the otter nodded.

"I'd like to face those Kiberians in open battle," Gabriel said wistfully. "See how good they actually are." He paused. "Do you know where I can enlist?"

The otter peered at Gabriel. "You? Enlist? How old are ye?"

"Twenty seasons old," Gabriel lied.

"Well," the otter sighed, laying his head back, "If ye leave this place an' head due east – that's where the sun comes up every mornin' – you'll eventually run into a small stream in a clearing. At th' stream there's a tree where a green rope is tied. Once ye see that, turn right and follow the dirt path along th' stream an' eventually you'll find a soldier. Tell 'im ye want t' enlist an' he'll lead ye to the camp an' that's where you can join up. Overall, the trip should take about a day or two."

Gabriel smiled gratefully. "Thank you very much, sir. I hope you get better." The otter grunted and closed his eyes. His heart pounding in his chest, Gabriel walked briskly out of the Infirmary, picturing himself in a bright green uniform, standing in the front ranks, scattering Kiberians right and left…

Ashlin and Burrum were waiting when their friend came out and nodded to them.

"Well?" Ashlin asked as they walked back toward the Great Hall.

"I got the information on where we can enlist," Gabriel grinned. "We should start making preparations as soon as we can. Remember: keep mum about this. If anybeast finds out, we'll be dead for sure."

"'Ow long will th' trip be, Garb?" Burrum asked.

"One to two days, so we'll need food, water, and blankets," Gabriel replied. "We need to leave in the morning and head due east. Shouldn't be much trouble. All we need to do is get our supplies together over the next few days and sneak out of Redwall. Then we can lie about our ages when we get there and we'll be fighting Kiberians in no time!"

The three grinned widely at each other, quivering with excitement. What an adventure this was going to be!


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Gabriel was lonely the next day. As ordered by their respective parents, Ashlin and Burrum were off right after breakfast – Ashlin was with his parents harvesting wheat, and Burrum was helping Foremole patch up holes in the roof.

As for Gabriel, well, there was certainly nobeast to order _him_ around. His parents had died when he was but an infant. And now, for the first time he could ever remember, he was meandering the halls and corridors of Redwall Abbey, alone and friendless.

But it wasn't like he had nothing to do, no. On the contrary, he just happened to "meander" straight into the Abbey Kitchens, where Friar Gurtrick and his assistants were cleaning up.

"Hi, there, Friar," Gabriel called, waving with feigned cheerfulness. "Good morning."

Upon hearing somebeast speaking to him, the portly hare adjusted his monocle and turned (with some difficulty, for he also had a wooden leg and an immense belly). "Ah, Gabriel, old lad! Top o' th' morning to you, too! No Kiberians here today, I'm afraid. Blasted creatures, they are, always running away, wot wot!" Gabriel laughed politely, but he was feeling extremely jittery about his mission. The simple mention of the term "Kiberians" made his heart race.

He had to ask. "D' you know anything about them…the Kiberians?"

"Why, I should!" Gurtrick replied, somewhat indignantly. "Lost my leg to them, doncha know! It was pitch black, and there were two dozen of 'em…" Gabriel knew the Friar was bluffing. Losing one's leg in a war sounded much more exciting than having it amputated after a tree fell on it. But this was valuable information that the young mouse could not afford to ignore; he felt as though it was worth a try: "Who are they? _What_ are they?"

"Vermin, of course," piped up one of the kitchen helpers in the back, a young squirrelmaid. She shuddered. "They carry all sorts of nasty diseases, like, for example, one where you have these maggots burrowing into your flesh! Urgh!"

"Now, now, Miss Meryl, enough's enough with the rumors, wot," Gurtrick chided her. "But she's perfectly correct about them being diseased, laddie buck," he said, turning back to Gabriel. "Dirty, nasty creatures, they are. Never wash, 'specially not behind th' ears, wot! Would never pass regiment standards for cleanliness in my book!"

"So they carry diseases," Gabriel deduced, slightly annoyed that it was taking this much effort to extract so little information.

"So we're _told_, old boy," Friar Gurtrick corrected him.

"Why doesn't somebeast just _ask_ a wounded soldier or something?" Gabriel asked, with some finality in his voice.

"Can't do that, I'm afraid," the Friar replied, moving over to the clay ovens, in which bread, biscuits, and scones were baking. "Nobeast has ever seen a Kiberian and lived to tell the tale. They strike hard, fast, and efficient. Seasons an' seasons and nobeast has _ever_ seen what a Kiberian looks like. That's what I call tactics!"

Gabriel couldn't believe his ears, but vermin, he concluded, could be crafty. But by now he wasn't even sure whether the Kiberians were vermin or not. "If the Kiberians are vermin, why do they fight against other vermin?" he asked.

The Friar adjusted his monocle outrageously. "Wot kind of question is _that_? Vermin fighting vermin, hmm, never heard that story before! For your information vermin kill vermin all th' flippin' time! And they're definitely not woodlanders, because they fight against _us_, too! Hmph! I say, you need to get out more, wot! Actually, right now, I have t' ask the Abbot something about tonight's dinner. Dewpaw, Giffy, Crefaras, front an' center! Come with me. Meryl, stay there and make sure this young rip doesn't steal anything out of my Kitchens again! I'm watchin' you…" Last time, Gabriel had stolen a fish from the Kitchens, which would have been fine had the fish not been the main course of the meal. Abbot Meros was none too pleased to find his dinner used for "ration purposes" by Gabriel, Ashlin, and Burrum.

Gabriel smirked as the rather rotund hare pushed his way past the countertops and hanging pots on his way out, followed by his kitchen helpers. The door closed, leaving Gabriel with Meryl.

"Can I – " Gabriel began, eyeing a tasty scone.

"You cannot. So there," Meryl said, giving him a triumphant, obnoxious smile.

They stood around somewhat awkwardly. "…Don't you have someplace to be?" Meryl suggested.

"Waiting for Friar Gurtrick to come back. I have more questions to ask him," Gabriel lied casually.

Meryl then noticed something. "…Hey, where's your friend?" she inquired. "You know, Ashlin?" Something clicked inside Gabriel's head.

"Probably thinking about you," Gabriel replied airily. "How can't he? I mean, I'd be head over heels too if a pretty maid sent him fresh-baked cakes every two days."

"Oh!" Meryl squealed. "I'm getting through to him, finally! That reminds me…I made him another cake today! Take a look. What d'you think?"

Gabriel looked at the miniature triple-decker thing, garishly decorated with leaves and blackberries. "Angelic," he muttered. "Anyway, he's workin' in the fields today with his mum an' dad. He's probably pretty hungry by now…"

Meryl was off in an instant. "Thanks! Bye! Don't touch anything!"

Gabriel listened to her rapid pawsteps and incessant giggling fade, then immediately went to work, stealing some bread, some biscuits, and two flagons of cold blackberry cordial (newly brewed) and stuffing them into a large haversack just lying around on the floor. Then he was out of the kitchens and running, having accomplished the first part of his mission.

* * *

The next part of the mission was to acquire weapons, and Gabriel knew just where to go. Every morning Skipper Bolund would lead his ottercrew down to secluded area by the Abbey Pond, where they would train with quarterstaffs. "Abbot's orders," Bolund had told Gabriel about a season ago. "Got t' have a couple defenders, right?"

Gabriel could hear the martial grunts and roars of the otters as he rounded the Abbey Pond. Everybeast ignored him and continued their training, except for Skipper Bolund.

"Good morning, Skipper."

Skipper Bolund, whose enormous stature, battle scars, and mercenary-like appearance belied the fact that he possessed a heart bigger than the Abbey walls, beamed as he saw the young mouse coming his way.

"Mornin' to ye, Gabe. Wot are ye up to?"

"Not much, Skipper. Thought I could help around…"

The great otter chuckled and gave Gabriel a hefty thump on the back which nearly knocked the young mouse flat. "Harharr, much appreciated! Yore just in time, mate. Listen, come with me. I'll show ye wot I need ye to do…"

A few minutes later Gabriel found himself in a small shack behind the Abbey toolshed. The inside of the shack was dark, and the dank smell of rotting wood seemed to emanate from the walls. It was a supremely uncomfortable place to be in, which was only augmented by the fact that every step they took was answered by a loud, muddy _squelch_ beneath their footpaws.

"'S where th' spare weapons were kept," Skipper Bolund explained.

"Aye, _were_," echoed Gabriel, as a piece of wood fell from overhead. He couldn't imagine anybeast in their right mind who would dump their weapons in this mudhole.

"We've kept our extra quarterstaffs, slings, an' everythin' in this shed, just in case somebeast needed an extra weapon or summat." Bolund continued.

Gabriel couldn't help but exclaim. "Nobeast's been in here for seasons!"

"Aye, yore right there, mate," Bolund replied sheepishly, scratching the back of his muscular neck with embarrassment. "We've never 'ad to replace a single weapon ever since this conflict started! Nobeast bothered t' even check on this extra store o' arms! Remember three summers ago, when it rained so much that Abbot Meros dubbed it th' Summer o' the Stormy Monsoons?" This little shack got flooded then, I s'pose. Leaky roof, y'see? Some of th' Brothers an' Sisters suggested that I replace th' straw roof with a nice, sturdy set o' shingles, an' I refused 'cos I thought it'd just be a waste o' time. I just remembered this little house this morning and went t' check on it…"

Gabriel accidentally breathed the moldy air in too deeply and nearly gagged. They could as well have been exploring a drained swamp (which was what this building had become, to some extent). "So, what is it y' want me to do?" he asked.

Skipper Bolund was already busy collecting the various weapons in armfuls. Gabriel gasped for fresh air as he followed the brawny otter outside.

"Can't stand the smell o' that shack," Bolund muttered. "I'll prob'ly 'ave Foremole tear it down later. Anyway – " he turned to Gabriel – "I need these things cleaned up. The rain's rotted a lot of our inventory. See this?" he held up a pockmarked quarterstaff, and Gabriel could see little white maggots oozing out from the holes, Bolund tossed the maggoty stick on the grass. "Find all th' broken weapons an' weed 'em out. Make a pile here an' I'll come take care of it later. Let's see…I'll do a quick count…we 'ave nineteen quarterstaffs – well, eighteen now – six short javelins – seventeen bolas an' twenny-five slings! That should be it. Shouldn't take ye all day, Gabe – I don't want t' keep ye too busy. Well, I'll be off now!"

Gabriel spent the next ten minutes sorting out all the weapons, doing as Bolund had instructed and tossing the unusable items where the Skipper had left the decrepit quarterstaff. At the same time, he inspected the weapons carefully for anything he, Ashlin, and Burrum could use as weapons. The slings and bolas were mostly ruined, their leather parts and ropes having being withered away by rain and chewed to pieces by maggots. The double-ended otter javelins were fine, as were most of the remaining quarterstaffs. Gabriel would have loved stabbing a Kiberian with a nice, razor-sharp otter javelin, but he knew Skipper Bolund would be back to count the inventory to make sure nothing was stolen. Besides, it would look too suspicious for him to run around Redwall Abbey with things that explicitly looked like weapons.

He decided to settle with the quarterstaffs. After he had picked three of the sturdiest, straightest quarterstaffs from the pile, Gabriel ran as fast as he could, heart pounding, to his dormitory room, where he shoved the weapons into the haversack and hid the whole thing under his bed. Now he just had to find something to replace the three weapons he had taken. But where to go…

As Gabriel left the dormitories he saw the stern, saturnine Sister Snow approaching from his right, carrying a mountain of curtain rods which piled so high that they obscured her field of vision.

"Hi, Sister Snow, it's me, Gabriel. Need any help?" Gabriel called.

"No, thank you," The serious Sister answered from behind her load. "I know exactly where I'm going. These curtain rods are very light, anyway. Brother Ermon found this lightweight type of wood to the south of the Abbey. All of the Infirmary's old curtain rods need replacing…"

But she was interrupted as two Dibbuns, a mousebabe and a shrewbabe, came tearing down the empty hall, straight towards Gabriel and Sister Snow.

"Heeheehee! Can't catcher me, slowpoke!"

"YAAAAH! Lookout! 'S Sis'sa Snow!"

"Young ones! Really, now! No running in the h – "

_WHAM!_

In the confusion that followed, with Sister Snow berating the Dibbuns for their blatant rule-breaking and forcing them to help pick up everything she dropped, Gabriel snatched up three curtain rods and ran for it, not looking back. They were noticeably longer than the quarterstaffs, he observed. Maybe if he could find a saw somewhere to cut them down to size…

Gabriel ran outside and hid behind the Abbey toolshed to catch his breath. He looked around. Skipper Bolund was nowhere to be seen, but he could be back any minute. If he could saw these curtain rods to the correct size and put them with the other weapons before Bolund got back, that would be the end of his worries.

He hastily threw open the door and took a mere three steps when he saw Den, who was looking for an extra shovel. Den whipped around at the commotion behind him.

"What're you doin' here?"

Gabriel's brain failed him for a split second as he realized how suspicious it must have looked to be standing there clutching three curtain rods in his sweaty, shaking paws.

Den approached him slowly and angrily. "What's in yore paws?"

"Quarterstaffs!" Gabriel blurted. "I'm just bringing them to Skipper…" he figured that in this situation, half a truth was probably safer than no truth at all.

Den snatched one of the curtain rods out from Gabriel's paws. _"Quarterstaffs?"_ he repeated, giving the rod a wave, "since when were quarterstaffs this whippy? Look at how much this thing bends…" with that, he bend the curtain rod into a near U-shape…

_SMACK!_ Gabriel jumped as the rod rebounded, hitting Den square in the chin and knocking him out cold. The young mouse couldn't believe his luck. Not wanting to waste any more valuable time, Gabriel found a saw and immediately cut the rods down to a reasonable length. Then he was off.

Skipper Bolund showed up a few minutes later, wiping sweat off his brow. "Whew! That was a good training session, it was! Ah, Gabe! There ye are! Sorted me weapons out yet?"

"Aye, Skipper," Gabriel nodded.

Skipper shook Gabriel's paw roughly. "Many thanks t' ye, mate. Ye know, Abbot Meros always says yore this horrible liddle mouse, but hopefully this can prove him wrong!"

Gabriel faked a smile. "I, uh, appreciate that. Can I go now?"

"Sure thing," Bolund nodded. "Off ye go."

Gabriel ran off without another word as Bolund picked up one of the "quarterstaffs," weighing it in his paws. "Hmm…seems a liddle on th' light side – since when do quarterstaffs bend? Quite flexible, this 'un – _OW!_ Me eye!"

* * *

Gabriel didn't see his friends until it was time to go to bed. Apparently the families of Ashlin and Burrum were very intent in keeping their sons away from the young mouse at all costs. But as soon as the three were allowed to convene in their dormitory, they were buzzing excitedly like a nest of hornets.

"Did you send Meryl after me today, Gabe?"

"…Maybe, why?"

"Do you know what it's like to have a squirrelmaid come to you while you're workin' in the fields with yore parents and a bunch of other grown Redwallers, plomp a cake into yore paws, say 'just for you, Ashy-poo,' blow you a kiss, and flounce away?"

"Are you complaining?"

"I hate you."

"I love you too, Ashy-poo."

"Hurr hurr hurr. That rhoimed, et did."

"Shut up, Burrum."

"So, other than that minor setback, how was your day, gentlebeasts?"

"Terrible," Ashlin groaned, arching his back. "You try bendin' over and threshing wheat all day."

Burrum chuckled. "Oi gots dust 'n moi eyes, but you'm doan't see me a-whoinin', nay, zurr."

Ashlin ignored Burrum. "And you?"

Gabriel shrugged nonchalantly. "Pretty boring without you guys. You know, other than hoarding _this_ – " he grunted with exertion as he tugged the full haversack out from under his bunk " – my day was completely uneventful and mundane."

Ashlin and Burrum goggled at the sheer sight of the bag. "Burr, Garb, you'm sure been busy a-stealin', hurr hurr," Burrum chuckled.

"What's in there?" Ashlin asked, intrigued.

"Glad you asked, friend," Gabriel replied, opening the haversack. "Let's see, I got some biscuits, two flagons of blackberry cordial, six loaves of bread…" his friends chuckled as Gabriel relayed to them how he tricked the fat Friar into letting him guard the Kitchens.

"Oh, and – I'm not done," Gabriel added as he drew three straight objects from the haversack. "Here, try these on for size," he said, tossing Ashlin and Burrum a stout, sturdy piece of wood each.

"Quarterstaffs." Ashlin marveled, his eyes wide as he balanced the stick in his paw. "I've always wanted to own one of these."

"You're welcome," Gabriel said, pulling out blankets from the bottom of the haversack. "I nearly got caught twice today, y' know."

"Well, that puts our contributions in perspective," Ashlin muttered, as he unshouldered three square leather packs. "After dinner I snuck out to the Abbey toolshed and I got us these grain bags. I was thinking we could use these to carry our supplies during the trek."

Gabriel eyed the little pouches and buttons on the bags. "Pretty fancy grain bags if you ask me. Oh, well, this is genius! Now we don't have to take turns carrying the haversack on the way to camp. Good thinking, Ashlin!"

"An' oi got larnterns," Burrum piped up, as if not to be outdone, letting three lanterns tumble out from under his tunic.

"I was wondering why you looked fatter," Ashlin grinned. He turned over to Gabriel. "Well, well, look at the little soldier."

"How do I look, mates?" Gabriel asked. He had rolled up his blanket and tied it to his pack, which he now wore over his back. He spun the quarterstaff around not so skillfully.

Burrum's velvety features creased into a smirk. "Loike a true Wurriurr of Redwall."

"Alright., that settles it, then," Gabriel said excitedly. "So let's divvy up the food an' the supplies before they call lights out. You two get some sleep."

"And you?" Ashlin asked.

"Don't worry about me," replied Gabriel. "We leave tonight. Out our window. There's a length of spare rope in the chest over there in the corner. I think it's long enough."

"A classic escape," nodded Ashlin.

"This place is pretty heavily guarded at night," Gabriel continued, "so we'll have to be quick. When I say 'go,' you two have to follow me and we'll escape together. Got it? On 'go'!"

"Oi! Ye know where you can 'go?' T' bed!" came Den's gruff voice from the other side of the wooden door.

Gabriel dropped his voice to a whisper. "Guess he's making his rounds early tonight. I still can't believe Meros appointed him to monitor the Dormitories. He just wants to make life miserable for us. Stupid Den. Alright, now go to bed. We'll be out of here soon enough. 'Night, Burrum. Good night, Ashy-poo."

"Shut _up_!"

As Ashlin and Burrum hunkered down to sleep, Gabriel stared out the window at the canopy of stars overhead. The moon was out, illuminating the silhouette of the rolling valleys beyond the boundary of these stifling Abbey walls. So much lay ahead. Excitement seemed to be suspended in the air in heavy droplets, and it coursed through Gabriel's veins. He was sure that Ashlin and Burrum were feeling the same way, because they, too, were tossing and turning in their sleep. Finally, the three friends were leaving, for real, on 'go'.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Garomar, Skipper of the Rudderwing otter clan, did not like how things had to change. As a young otter, he had encountered strange new happenings around his beloved Holt Rudderwing which he found less than ideal. First, there were the vermin. That was one of the problems with living near the sea. Southeastern Mossflower was a veritable jewel in the eyes of the corsairs and bandit gangs roaming those parts. It was not uncommon to see an ominous ship in the distance, its tattered black sails billowing in the wind. Considered one of the finest warriors in his holt, Garomar often led his fellow clanbeasts in defending their beloved home from the endless assortment of odd vermin, who would often flee in the face of well-aimed slingstones and double-ended otter javelins. Like most otters, Garomar rarely missed.

When he became Skipper, however, it seemed as though the vermin were actually getting some concept of organization under their thick skulls. For example, Garomar could count on his fingers the number of different factions that had attacked Holt Rudderwing last summer. There were the brown-clad Deathbringers from the northwest, the blue-bandana-sporting Yeesak from the South, and who could forget the eastern Skullhorde, with its bone necklaces and fanged armbands? Garomar had three of said armbands on either muscular wrist. It was common practice for Rudderwing otters to collect trophies of foes that they'd killed. Lastly, if one encountered a vermin with a white sash, one was definitely facing a Northern Jurka raider…or was it Southern Jurka? Which faction's members painted their faces with their own blood again? He always mixed those two up.

However, nothing got under Garomar's scarry skin more than the Kiberians, which was strange, considering they had never actually attacked the holt directly, but rather, as Garomar was convinced, through means of black magic. "They work in strange ways, they do," he'd say every night to the young otterkitts who'd sit around him in a circle, enthralled at how much he knew about this unseen enemy. In fact, Garomar had never encountered a single Kiberian face-to-face. He could hear them, however, near the streams from time to time, chattering in some foreign language. When he went to investigate, there was the characteristic pitter-patter of receding pawsteps followed by silence. It drove him crazy. Every now and then, something would get lost, and somebeast would die from a terminal illness. A tree had been destroyed in a storm and had collapsed in front of the holt entrance, which Garomar and ten other otters had spent two entire days to remove. Garomar had attributed these happenings to the shady Kiberians. The rest of the holt seemed to believe him in the wake of such events, because when a messenger of the Mossflower Militia came to offer an alliance, most of his fellow clanbeasts agreed.

"Arr, just let 'em be," Garomar's father would say. Let them be? The Kiberians? After the stream of misfortunes they had brought to the proud Rudderwing Holt? Garomar was not like his peace-loving father, Galingros, who was Skipper before him. He was not going to just let this slide. The Kiberians needed to be destroyed by whatever means necessary.

Since the regular MM units stationed in the area had been, of late, busy tangled up fighting the Southern Jurkas (ah, yes, _they_ were the ones without the face paint), Garomar decided it was time to take matters into his own paws, which was why he was here tonight, leading a troop of thirty paw-picked otters on an expedition to find, ambush, and root out the unseen enemy. The night was starry, the moon only partially obscured by trees. Cool night breezes of autumn could be felt. All was quiet, save a few crickets chirping in the night.

"I need a new spear. Lookit this tip. It's goin' t' break off," groused one of the otters, as the squad carefully followed a stream.

"Keep yore voice down, Terrod," Garomar whispered firmly. "There's no tellin' where they're watchin' us from." Most otters were wearing magical amulets and sporting painted charms on various parts on their body to ward off any black magic that may lurk in the night.

As they trekked, their blood ran colder and colder. Everybeast was apprehensive of the shadowy dangers of the night. The twinkling stars seemed to be silently watching the little party's every move. The breezes turned into sinister, ghostly, moans, and the chirping of the crickets sounded more like the chilling whisper of Death making its rounds in the night, ruthlessly marking down the ones who it decided were not going to see the next sunrise. Garomar could smell the fear of his comrades, or maybe it was his own…

"Wait," the gargantuan Skipper said suddenly, holding up a paw. Everybeast stopped dead in their tracks, instinctively huddling up protectively as Garomar squatted, inspecting something lying on the ground. The others stayed close, waiting desperately for his verdict.

"Cloth," he stated after what seemed like eons. "Can't tell wot color this is under th' darkness. But it definitely means we're close, mates. So let's surprise our enemy in their sleep an' get it over with, eh?"

"Great, my spear'ead broke off," the one called Terrod muttered forlornly. "'Ow am I goin' t' fight Kiberians with just a stick? I should've stuck with th' otter javelin."

But Garomar ignored him. "In here, mates," he ordered, gesturing towards the thick woods. "There's no escapin' it. This is where they live. If we want t' end it tonight then we 'ave to get them when they least expect it."

With great reluctance, Garomar's otters followed their leader into the shelter of the forest, though never had a shelter been so foreboding. Every time somebeast trod too heavily on a twig, virtually the entire squad would jump with fright.

"Stay together, mates," Garomar urged. "We're almost there." Considering how nobeast knew where the Kiberians exactly were, nobeast was very comforted by Garomar's attempt to relieve fears.

Then he saw it. Several meters ahead, Garomar saw the faint glow of a light. "There," he whispered to his followers. "Stay low, an' follow me."

* * *

Eventually they came to a colossal oak tree between two massive stone outcroppings, where at its base lay a lit lantern, which illuminated a pair of corpses. Upon seeing the bodies, one of the otters yelped in terror. Garomar glared at him. "Shut it! They're dead!"

Together, they moved cautiously towards the two fly-ridden carcasses. The otter named Terrod and the one who shouted, Aras, crouched to inspect the corpses.

"Well?" Garomar asked, shifting slightly with anticipation.

"Blacktails, Skip," Aras reported, noting the black desert attire so characteristic of these bandits. "Must've been dead for a week."

"Wot're Blacktails doin' so far out here?" Terrod asked. "I thought they spent their time in the dunes 'twixt Mossflower an' Salamandastron."

Skipper Garomar shrugged. "They're probably tryin' t' stake their claim in Mossflower Wood as well. Typical vermin; drive us peaceful woodlanders out, then fight amongst themselves."

"Oy! This 'un's got a proper-lookin' scimitar!" Terrod exclaimed, casting aside the remains his broken spear and picking up the beautiful sword, testing its weight in his paw. "I'm keepin' this!"

Aras tugged an arrow out from the throat of one of the dead rats. "Skip, come look at this, sir. See th' arrow'ead? It's not wot th' Mossflower soldiers use."

Garomar bent down to inspect the arrow. It was perfectly straight, with green fletching. The tip was not the standard straight arrowhead found on Mossflowerian arrows, but rather featured two short needles attached to either side of the base of the arrowhead via tiny hinges…

It took Garomar a second to process this, but before he was finished, there was a distant cry of _"Shanxarados! Tu'umabis!"_

The unmistakable twang of a bowstring was then heard, and Terrod straightened up like a puppet brought to life, then fell forward, as if his strings had just been cut, an arrow – identical to the one Garomar had just picked up – protruding out from his neck.

Suddenly, the woods came alive as torches lit up simultaneously. Garomar gasped in horror as Aras was felled by a sickle-like blade which flew through the night and buried itself between his eyes. There were exhortative shouts of _"M'Shanxarados Nahtins! Nahtins!"_ which sent chills down the Skipper's spine. This was not the rough seafaring dialect spoken by the vermin murderers. This was something completely different. His mind went back to a warm summer's day…the conversations he heard emanating from the stream…

Without thinking, Garomar reared his head back and roared: "KIBERIANS! HOLD YORE GROUND!"

But the tiny group of otters was no match for this unseen, deadly force. One was shot in the chest by two hinge-barb arrows and another three were hoisted up into the trees by a kelp net which apparently was hidden beneath the leaves. Garomar threw himself flat. As he did, he saw one of his otters running away from the battlefield. To his left, a lithe creature of medium stature, wearing what appeared to be a straw hat, reared his arm and let fly a long spear, which traversed an impossible length and found its mark between the otter's shoulder blades.

"Run! Run!" The otters were quickly breaking formation and attempting to flee, but they were surrounded. A multitude of dark shapes materialized from the woods, impaling with spears those who ran too fast to stop themselves. Realizing that they were being closed in on, the otters ran the other way, only to have several of them shot by more of the dark shapes which had emerged to participate in the battle. Garomar watched through barely-open eyes as those still alive were brutally cut down with swords straight and curved, garroted with bolas, and in one instance beaten to the ground and skewered with a double-bladed cutlass.

The remaining otters (except for their leader) staggered into a tight cluster, their backs to one another. Clutching slings, they were absolutely helpless as the Kiberians formed firing ranks and fired arrows into their bodies at near-point-blank range. Garomar closed his eyes to avoid witnessing the carnage. They had no chance.

Then, there was a rustling of leaves and some low conversation. When Garomar opened his eyes, the Kiberians had vanished.

Slowly, the Skipper staggered up. It was dark now. All the lanterns were extinguished. He could only make out the shapes of his comrades lying on the forest floor in grotesque positions. Now the moon emerged in full from behind the clouds. Not a single Kiberian lay with the otters.

Tears coursed openly down Garomar's face. He had let himself and thirty of Rudderwing's finest troops walk into a trap. Then he had thrown himself on the ground and watched them meet their violent end at the paws of a foe he couldn't even see.

His paw touched something. It was an otter javelin. Picking up two javelins, Garomar stalked off into the forest in pursuit of the enemy. The woods seemed to close in on him. Every noise he didn't make was the enemy. The lone Skipper saw shadows lurking everywhere he looked.

_Crack!_ There was a noise behind him, and Garomar whipped around, breathing hard. Nothing. As he resumed his pursuit he tripped. Seething with unfulfilled vengeance Garomar got up and continued, crashing through the saplings and dead branches which littered the ground at random.

_Crack!_ Another mysterious noise made Garomar jump and look behind him a second time. Nothing again. "SHOW YOURSELF, YOU COWARDS!" he screamed shrilly, swinging the javelins around as if he were fighting off an army of imaginary enemies. A sudden shot through his right paw as one of the javelins struck a tree trunk and snapped clean in half. This stopped Garomar from his fury. The otter breathed deeply. He had to focus. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in –

Suddenly, an arrow struck him in the shoulder and he shouted out in surprise. He ripped the projectile out from his body, feeling a sharp pain as the needlelike barbs broke off in his open wound. Trying to ignore his wound, Garomar watched as several Kiberians exited the shadows to face him. One of them, wearing a straw hat with a hawk feather at the top, stepped forward, grinning wryly. _"Skelans bis, vor'xastres. Ijeka tu'umabis ne?"_

Staunching the blood from his wound, Garomar spat at his adversary. "I don't know wot yore sayin', scum. I can barely see ye, but wot I do know is that yore goin' t' take on a different tone with me once I make ye bleed!"

_"Thestrateos! Ijeka helkabis m'lansfimaraisbis ne?"_ scowled the Kiberian, who wasn't smiling anymore. With that, he strutted about, doing a crude parody of Garomar's otters in their death throes. The other Kiberians howled with laughter. _"Jamanins hinganlans!"_ the Kiberian officer sneered.

Garomar charged, roaring at the top of his lungs. The Kiberian sidestepped, dodging the otter's javelin thrust while drawing his own weapons – a medium-sized rattan buckler covered in metal, and a short spear with this curved hook attached at the base of the spearhead. The center of the buckler caught Garomar in the face, and he staggered back, bleeding from the muzzle, but determined to vanquish his foe. Again he stabbed, making the fatal mistake of moving in range of his opponent's weapon. This time, the Kiberian used his buckler to push aside the otter's thrust. Then, stepping forth, he used his short spear to deliver a lightning-quick stab to Garomar's left leg. Garomar gasped and fell on one knee as the Kiberian whipped him viciously on both cheeks with the spearhaft, then snagged his right shoulder with the hook and dragged him down and to the left, into a prostrate position. Half-dazed, Garomar was forced to look up as the Kiberian grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He found himself staring for the first – and last – time at the face of his would-be killer under that rudimentary straw hat – that icy gaze, the florid war paint – but what shocked him most was that he was staring at –

_"Mulejarins ridemas ne."_

The last thing felt by Garomar, Skipper of Rudderwing felt was cold steel impaling his throat. Then he fell and moved no more.

* * *

**A/N: If anyone wishes to know exactly what the Kiberians are saying, let me know and I'll PM you. ~The Ghost Writer**


End file.
